


Day 10: Champagne

by thebright1



Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1941, Aziraphale Angst (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), M/M, Nazis, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders, pulls him towards the car. “Say no more. I’ve got a surprise in the car for you that’ll help. Let’s go back to your shop.”Aziraphale wants simultaneously to sayPlease don’t touch meandplease don’t stop touching me. What comes out instead is, “I don’t know if I can take any more surprises.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620406
Comments: 22
Kudos: 146





	Day 10: Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Ineffable Valentines challenge on Tumblr. All the stories in this series are connected, but can be read as stand alones. Different chapters have different content warnings and ratings.
> 
> All the works in this series are also posted as a chaptered work for easier reading/downloading: [ An Ineffable Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191/chapters/55213303)
> 
> [ Miele_Petite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite) drew 1940s Aziraphale and Crowley for this day of the challenge too! Check out her awesome artwork below! Thanks so much for letting me use this beautiful piece as an illustration for this installment! 

1941

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley says. He hands the case of books to Aziraphale, their fingers touch, and Aziraphale feels a sudden surge of  _ love _ and he’s completely overwhelmed. He can feel  _ love _ pouring off of Crowley. He reaches his finger out, seeking more contact, looking for that brush of skin against skin to confirm and yes… oh, so much love. He feels his heart beat faster. Crowley loves him. Crowley. A demon. His mouth hangs open. Love. From Crowley.  _ From a demon. _ It shouldn’t be possible, it can’t be possible, can it? 

“Lift home?” Crowley asks, unaware of Aziraphale’s inner turmoil.

Aziraphale swallows thickly. His legs feel shaky. His entire world has been upended. He thinks he might faint. He’s never fainted in his life, but he has seen humans do it plenty of times, just collapse into unconsciousness. It always looks uncomfortable, especially if there is no one around to catch you. 

_ Crowley would catch you,  _ Aziraphale thinks. His breathing quickens. He begins to sweat. His thoughts are a jumble of mixed up lights and sounds. He can feel the cold air around him, the smell of the smoke, the buzz of the retreating planes overhead, and-

“Hey.” Aziraphale jumps. Crowley stands close, a hand on his shoulder. He’s radiating love. Aziraphale’s shoulder feels warm through his coat. He’s dizzy with the feeling. “You all right, angel?” He peers over the rim of his dark glasses. “Did you get hit by something?”

_ You, _ Aziraphale thinks. “I’m . . .” he stops, takes a deep breath, and tries to collect himself. “I think I’m just a bit . . “ 

Crowley nods. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat, and pulls out a flask. “It’s a lot,” he says simply. “Sometimes I don’t know how the humans do it over and over again.” He uncaps the flask, holds it out. Aziraphale reaches a hand up. It’s trembling. He furrows his brows and stares at it. He’s not trying to make his hand shake. He feels completely out of control. 

Crowley takes his hand and claps it to the flask. Love and relief floodhis senses, but it’s calming instead of worrying. “Easy, angel.” Crowley lifts the flask to Aziraphale’s lips. Brandy trickles down his throat. It burns all the way down, the fire blasting away all the shakes. Crowley brings the flask back down, caps it, and returns it to his jacket pocket. “Better?” he asks. 

Aziraphale wants to say absolutely not, because he can still feel love radiating off Crowley and it’s like an echo that grows stronger instead of dying away. But his hands have stopped shaking, and he can feel the ground firm and hard under his feet, so he supposes it’s helped. “I-- I think so. I’m still. . . “ he trails off. 

Crowley puts an arm around his shoulders, pulls him towards the car. “Say no more. I’ve got a surprise in the car for you that’ll help. Let’s go back to your shop.” 

Aziraphale wants simultaneously to say  _ Please don’t touch me  _ and  _ please don’t stop touching me _ . What comes out instead is, “I don’t know if I can take any more surprises.” 

Crowley chuckles as the Bentley comes into view, miraculously whole and unscratched amid the destruction. “You’ll like this one. I just got back from France. Brought you a souvenir from my time with Count de Vogüé.” 

Safely ensconced in the car, Aziraphale clutches the bag of books so hard that he fears he might break the handle, or the fingers of his own corporation. He stares out the window at London by moonlight. Crowley drives in silence, headlights off, easily maneuvering the Bentley through streets littered with debris. 

Aziraphale’s thoughts are a bit less panicked. He’s already adjusting to the feeling of love that he feels from Crowley. Or maybe it’s a bit dimmed? Whatever has happened, the feeling is not nearly as strong as it was, and Aziraphale is grateful because he can start to sort it all out. He loves Crowley. Of course he does. He’s a being of love. It’s all he knows. He loves everything. Even things he doesn’t much care for (horses, for example), are things that still deserve love, everyone deserves love, and as a representative for the Almighty Herself, charged with looking after the human race and all the things they love, it’s his duty to love. His privilege. To love everything that God made. 

So he’s loved Crowley forever, ever since they met on the wall of the Garden and watched Adam and Eve make their way into the harsh world. That’s been fine for all these years because Crowley is a demon and demons can’t love. So it’s fine if he loves Crowley, because his love will never be reciprocated. That’s just fine. But it’s not true. 

_ They can’t be forgiven, Aziraphale. _ Gabriel’s words ring in his ears.  _ They rebelled. Rejected God’s love. They can’t love. They don’t know how.  _

Aziraphale feels tears well up in his eyes. “It’s so wrong,” he whispers to himself. 

Crowley hears him. “You’re not upset about the Church, are you? Look, they’ll rebuild, just like everything else. Easier to rebuild a Church than to get you a new corporation. And didn’t you say Gabriel was on you again about using too many miracles?”

Aziraphale blinks back the tears, keeps his face turned resolutely to the window. He nods assent, not trusting his voice not to break, not trusting the words that might come out. 

“I’d like to see him live in London right now and make it through a day without using more than his allotment. Does he realize that people are fleeing into the countryside? Like the fourteenth bloody century all over again.”

Aziraphale coughs, his confusion cutting through his heartbreak. The fourteenth century? “What?” He gives Crowley an incredulous look. 

“All those people sending their kids out into the wilderness to fend for themselves. Locking their loved ones up to die alone of plague? Awful mess. You missed the worst of it. Hope the Nazis never get their hands on anything like that.”

Aziraphale remembers the fourteenth century. Lots of complaints about the sudden uptick in work from Heaven. He had spent a significant amount of time working in Italy and China. “I’m glad I missed it.” He pauses. “Is that when you showed up and demanded that we drink our weight in baijiu?”

Crowley chuckles. “It was the only way to get through it. Some of the things I saw. . . Earth sure was giving Hell a run for its money.”

Aziraphale finds himself thinking back on all of his encounters with Crowley, refocusing all of their time together. All the times Crowley showed up when he needed him. Aziraphale had rationalized it all away. Put it down to it just being easier for Crowley to help him than actually having to worry about someone actively fighting against him. The devil you know . . . well, angel . . versus the one you don’t. He and Crowley had had something of a gentlemen’s agreement between them. A professional agreement. Even before the Arrangement. 

Has Crowley always loved him? It can’t be. Something must have changed. Crowley must have changed. Could it be that God has decided to forgive him? After all this time? 

Aziraphale feels both hope and dread at the thought. Hope because his friend might be saved from Hell’s clutches. Dread because he can’t imagine Crowley’s unhappiness at working under Heaven’s thumb again. He wouldn’t do it. Aziraphale can’t imagine it. Gabriel’s officious memos about the number of miracles, the types you were allowed to perform, the amount you were allowed to interfere or not. Crowley would hate it. Maybe more than he hated serving Satan. 

Aziraphale has to find out. Does Crowley know? Does he know that he loves?  _ Maybe not. He is a demon. But he was an angel. Surely he would remember the feeling of love. . .  _

Crowley pulls the car up to the bookshop. It’s miraculously undamaged, although the city around it hovers in various stages of disrepair and ruin. Aziraphale turns to get out, and feels Crowley’s hand brush against his calf. Crowley is bent over, searching for something under the seat of the car. Aziraphale does not feel the same blast of love at the touch, but he has the very strange desire to press his leg into Crowley’s hand, like a dog nudging someone’s hand to ask for a pet. He clears his throat and pulls his leg towards the door, opening the handle. “Did you lose something?”

“Just rolled around a bit. . . got it!“ Crowley emerges, triumphant, holding a bottle in his hands. “Let’s go inside and celebrate bombing a Church and killing some halfwit Nazis all at the same time!” 

Aziraphale cannot imagine an angel ever saying those words. Crowley can’t have changed. 

  
  


The champagne has a poison label on the front, but it is very good, very bubbly, and has a very high alcohol content. Alcohol has been hard to come by, and Aziraphale’s corporation’s tolerance has lowered significantly. Two glasses in, combined with the brandy, and he’s feeling much better about the whole situation. The fuzz of the alcohol in his brain, combined with the familiarity of the routine (Crowley on the loveseat, he in his desk chair, the bottle between them on the table) lull him into what he knows in some part of his mind is a false sense of security. Everything has changed completely, but he can pretend that absolutely nothing has. 

“What were you doing in Champagne anyway?” 

Crowley smiles. “Asking questions the  _ weinfuhrer _ doesn’t like.” He sips his champagne. “The Nazis have stolen an awful lot of wine that I could have been drinking.”

“You went to France and fought Nazis because they took your alcohol?” 

“Not just that!” Crowley protests. “I had a mission, if you recall. Several missions in fact. One for Hell, one for the British government and one for you. Getting the champagne was just a . . . side project.” 

“Too bad you only got the one bottle,” Aziraphale says, holding up the champagne bottle to gauge how much is left. 

“Who says I only got one?” Crowlely snaps his fingers. Two more bottles appear next to it. “I got a whole case of them in the boot.” 

Aziraphale fills his glass with the last of the first bottle. “Why do they have poison labels on them?”

Crowley laughs low in his throat. Aziraphale feels something fluttery in his stomach at that noise. “I swapped the labels on at least 1000 bottles. Wonder how many Nazis will end up in Hell saying they’ll never drink again.” 

“Will Hell be upset that you’ve killed Nazis?” 

Crowley shrugs. “I doubt it. Abaddon’s been coming up with new tortures for some of these guys. I heard he’s eager to try them out. Now the Nazis . . . they will be upset when they find out that Anthony J. Crowley has tricked them again.” He chuckles, downs more champagne. 

“About that,” Aziraphale says. “Do you want me to call you Anthony? Or is it just something for the humans?” 

“Whatever you like, angel.” He pops open the second bottle and pours himself a glass. “I needed to give SIS something more than Crowley.” He slides his sunglasses off and sets them on the table, leaning back into the cushions and putting his feet up. “It’s good to be home, even if home is a wrecked shell of a city.” 

His ease makes Aziraphale brave. He doesn’t want to tell Crowley what he’s thinking, what he’s been feeling, and wondering. He very clearly remembers Crowley’s panic-stricken face at their first meeting.  _ I can’t be nice. It’s not allowed.  _ Aziraphale imagines that love is not allowed, either. Not without consequences from Hell. “Crowley, did anything . . . did anything strange happen while you were in France?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley snorts. “Loads of strange things happened. SIS had me doing some really weird things-”

“No, I mean . . . something . . . something ethereal.”

“Ethereal?”

“Or occult.”

Crowley frowns. “Are you asking if I was summoned by witches? Because the answer is no.” His eyes widen. “Did the Nazis try to summon you? Is that why you were so . . “ he waves his hand in the air, “at the Church?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. His vision swims a bit. This champagne is very strong. “No, no, I just . . . I just wondered.” He takes a deep breath, eyes roaming over Crowley. Time to try a different tactic. “I’ve missed you,” Aziraphale says. 

There’s a microburst of love in the air. Crowley grunts and says, “Shut it,” like he’s absolutely disgusted. But there’s that same feeling Aziraphale felt in the Church. Crowley takes a long drink of his champagne.

“Well, I have,” Aziraphale says, not embarrassed because he’s an angel, and he loves and Crowley knows he loves. It’s never been a question. “I have,” he repeats. 

Crowley looks at him over the rim of his champagne glass. “Careful, angel,” he says simply. “You don’t want to end up like me.” 

Aziraphale bites the inside of his lip to stop himself from bursting into tears. He nods. “Quite right.” 

_ They can’t be forgiven, Aziraphale.  _

Aziraphale wonders if Crowley will forgive him for not realizing until now.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> All my information about Champagne and the Nazis comes from [ this article](https://nypost.com/2019/08/15/how-frances-champagne-makers-fooled-nazis-and-helped-turn-the-tide-of-wwii/). 
> 
> Thanks for all your kind words and kudos!


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